


What Would You Do If You Could Start It All Again?

by Orlissa



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, It's not a happy piece, Mentions of suicidal tendencies, Midseason finale fix it, Post-possession Ward, Skyeward is mostly implied, Sorta speculation for the end of S3, but there's light at the end of the tunnel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orlissa/pseuds/Orlissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Grant Ward was dead – that she knows for fact. And then he was back – sort of; in body, or what, hosting an ancient Inhuman. But when It was gone, jumping to another host as they fought, they expected – she expected – Ward to be gone, now for good. And yet he remained, lying on the ground–<br/>Breathing</i><br/> </p><p>The creature leaves Ward's body, leaving him alive but lost and Skye needs to face the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I’m in denial, and I need to believe that it’s not the end. So I wrote this – a little “what could happen”–scenario, set around the (possible) end of S3. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to fluff after this – we all need that.

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.  
(Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)_

“How is this even possible?” she hears herself saying, hand carefully resting on the window, her gaze lost between her own reflection and the man on the other side of the wall, lying on a hospital bed.

“I don’t know.” She barely hears Simmons’ answer through the buzzing in her ears. “It shouldn’t be. I… I honestly don’t know.”

Grant Ward was dead – that she knows for fact. And then he was back – sort of; in body, or what, hosting an ancient Inhuman. But when It was gone, jumping to another host as they fought, they expected – she expected – Ward to be gone, now for good. And yet he remained, lying on the ground–

Breathing.

“His heartbeat is steady. He’s breathing on his own,” Jemma continues, her voice a low murmur in the background. “And Daisy,” she stops, as if to swallow, as if the next thing she needs to say is to incomprehensible to be said, “he has brain function.”

That yanks her from her stupor.

“So he’ll wake up?”

(She doesn’t recognize her own voice – was that dread in her tone? Or hope?)

Jemma presses her lips together until they are just a thin line.

“I… I’m not sure. I don’t know.” Her gaze wanders from her face. “His brain function seems normal, but… He had that thing inside of him for months. Even if he does… even if he does wake up, who can tell…”

“…Who he’ll be,” she finishes the sentence for Jemma, turning back towards the window. He could be himself – whoever that is. He could be a completely new person. Or he could be nothing but an empty shell. (What is not said, just implied, that they might be better off if he doesn’t wake at all.)

“He could be still there,” she hears from behind her back. It’s the first time Fitz spoke. “When I met Will… I mean, It in Will’s body… He recognized me. He knew about Jemma. So…”

“So he must have had access to his memories.”

She sees Fitz nod in the glass.

“So what now?” she asks.

“Now we wait.”

***

And then they do. For three days.

She can’t keep away. She wants to, she tries to, but she can’t.

First it’s just stepping by and looking through the window; making sure she always has something to do around the med bay.

Then she goes in. Just for a minute, then two. She watches him, briefly. He looks peaceful, unburdened. Much like in the beginning.

Then she just stays there. Takes her paperwork or her laptop and sits in his room, doing her work, like it was normal.

(She doesn’t get it; she has never been masochistic.)

She is there when it happens.

***

At first it’s just the heart rate monitor picking up. Then his breathing changes into sharp, painful pants.

She is there by his side by the time his eyes flew open.

(There is terror in his gaze; pure, utter terror.)

There is a moment of complete stillness. It feels as if even sound has left the room.

And then he starts shouting.

“Let me go! Let me go!” He trashes, making the bed rock and the railing rattle as he tugs against his bonds. They won’t give. “I can’t… I… I… I…”

Led by some strange instinct, she takes his face into her hands, forcing him to look at her.

“Hey, I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay, you need to calm down…”

He stops for a moment. She can see the recognition in his eyes.

And then he’s screaming again.

“Kill me! Kill me! Please, kill me!”

By then the medical team arrives and she is pushed to the back of the room.

A moment later he is sedated.

***

She won’t leave the room.

They try to get her out, but she is stubborn and stays. She doesn’t know what is keeping her there, but she is certain she needs to be there when he wakes again.

So she waits, curled up in a chair in the corner, waiting.

(Even if it makes her crazy.)

***

The next time he regains consciousness, he keeps still and silent.

He lies still, staring at the ceiling. She knows that he knows she’s there. Just as she knows he is aware of her knowing he’s awake. And yet, neither of them talk.

It’s a stupid game – seeing who can hold out longer.

It turns out that the winner is her.

“I remember dying,” he says suddenly into the white void of the room. “I remember feeling my heart beat for the last time – how messed up is that?” He lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. “And then it was over – only it wasn’t.”

She has a myriad questions to ask, but she keeps silent, resting her chin on her knee, waiting for him to continue.

A full minute passes before he talks again.

“Has It… the creature done much harm?”

She takes her time to answer – after all, what could she say?

“We stopped It. It’s hiding now.”

“Has It?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

(She doesn’t know why she doesn’t want him to worry about it.)

He falls silent again, but when she’d think he stopped talking for good, he speaks again.

“I wasn’t there, you know. When It was in my body. Well, most of the time I wasn’t – sometimes It’d need something from me, something from my memories, I guess, and then It’d would… Pull me from the drawer.”

“Then where were you?” The question is ridiculously silly and childish and innocent, but it’s out before she could stop it.

She doesn’t expect him to answer, but he does.

“On the Bus. Or at least some… reflection of it.” She can see how his eyes flutter closed for a moment before he continues. “That’s where I woke up. And it was… normal. Like before-normal.” He doesn’t have to elaborate on what he means; she knows – the Bus before HYDRA. “It was just a slow day – do you remember those? When we would have no mission, and we would train in the morning, and you’d chat with FitzSimmons in the lab, and then we would play board games in the longue or watch a movie? It was like one of those days. Only it never ended.”

The clock on the wall ticks five times before he continues.

“I guess this is how It kept me from fighting it. I mean, you’d sooner fight a harsh truth than a beautiful lie, right?” (For a moment, she thinks he’ll turn his head towards her, but he doesn’t.) “So he kept me happy and occupied. I knew something was not right – the day never ended and we never left – it was as if the world ended with the cargo bay door –, and the whole thing was static, but… I did nothing. I let myself believe that I was living reality, because I was at peace, and Simmons laughed with me, and Fitz clapped me on the back, and you…”

“And I?”

“And you looked at me like you loved me.”

(There’s a knot in her throat that just won’t go away.)

“And then what happened?”

“Then the illusion was gone and I woke up here.”

***

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice almost sincere.

The sarcastic remark is out before she could stop it.

“Better than you, as it seems.”

He scoffs; like she really is irritating him.

“I’m serious – I need to know. Are you okay?”

She sinks deeper into the chair.

“Yeah, things are… okay. It was rough for a while, but now it’s… okay.”

( _Okay_ is such a relative term.)

“And FitzSimmons?”

“They’re fine.”

“You’ll take care of them, right?”

“Yeah, I… Why are you asking me this?” she asks, leaning forward.

“I just have to be sure you’ll be alright – taking care of each other.”

“Why do you care so suddenly?”

A shudder runs through his body.

“I’ve always cared.” A beat of silence, and then “I need to know you’ll be fine and there for each other – because I want you to kill me.”

She doesn’t say a word. She simply gets up and leaves the room.

***

She is back an hour later with a bowl of soup in her hand.

“You need to eat,” she states, pushing the button with vigor to elevate the upper part of his bed and shift him into sitting position (he is still tied down; he doesn’t act like it bothers him).

“What’s the point?” he asks without looking at her.

“You need to get your strength back.”

He laughs; it’s dark and sad and it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“I told you I want to die.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not going to happen. Open up,” she orders, lifting a spoonful of soup towards his mouth.

He turns his head away stubbornly, like a child.

“Would you stop it?” he snaps, his voice sharp. “Skye…” (She shudders; nobody called her that in months.) “I want to die, I mean it.” He sighs, then continues, his head turned away from her. “I wanted… so many things. It never turned out well – never. If I wanted to help, it backfired. If I wanted something for myself, I hurt people I didn’t want to. I was never happy – only when I was dead. When I was confined to a goddamned illusion while some freaking monster controlled my body.” He chuckles again. “And to think once I thought it’d be a good idea to bring It here… Anyways, it’s better end here and now. I did too many stupid, horrible things. There’s… too much on my ledger and I’m empty and tired. I’m tired of the pain.” Then, for the first time since he woke up, he looks at her, really at her. “So please, kill me. Just end it.”

She loses it. She throws the bowl to the floor, letting it shatter and the soup splash around. She jumps from the chair; her heart is beating wildly, she feels like she is about to cry, and the whole room is thrumming with her.

“Shut up!” she yells. “Shut up! Shut the hell up!” His eyes go round. “I wanted you dead – for so long I wanted you dead. Then I wished you never even existed in the first place, because then you wouldn’t have had the chance to hurt me. I wanted you erased. And when you died – when Coulson killed you – I wanted to be happy about it. But you know what? I couldn’t! I couldn’t, because I just kept thinking what would have happened if we tried to help you just a little bit sooner, what if I understood you just a bit sooner, what would have happened if we got to you a little sooner and… And I found myself wishing you were still alive.”

“And then you were!” She is sobbing by now. “It was gone from you, but you were still alive! You were lying there, and I put my hand on your chest and felt your heart beating! It should have been impossible, oh, but then again, you have always been impossible! And it got me thinking – it honestly got me thinking – what the hell could it be, if not a big, fucking sign from the universe that you need to have a second chance?”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath before she continues.

“So I am not going to kill you. You can beg me to do it, but I won’t. Just like I won’t let anybody else do it. Because here I am picking a fight with Coulson and half of the team to have them let you stay. Because here I am, looking after you, trying to get you out of bed. Because here I am… here I am, ready to give a freaking second chance. You want a clean slate? You have just come back from the dead! There you go! You want to help? You want your life have a meaning? Then do something! You want to be happy? Want to get us… me… back? Then work for it, damn it!”

Tears running down her face, she turns around and almost runs to the door, but she stops there, and turns back towards him from the threshold.

“The Grant Ward I knew never gave up,” she says and then she is gone.

***

Hours later they tell her he wants to see her. She doesn’t know why, but she goes down to his room, with a fresh bowl of soup in her hands. This time when she sits by him, not saying a word, he lets her feed him.

“I think I know how to defeat It,” he says after three bites.

“Now we are talking.”


	2. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I continued it, after all – although it’s not the confrontation some have asked for (I still don’t how would that play out). Instead it’s a little exploration of Grant’s psyche as he tries to come to terms of what happened – as he is trying to reconcile his past, the creature’s past and his present.

_Who are you?_ – the question echoes in his head as he stares at his own reflection.

_I’m Grant Ward, agent of–_

No. He stops there. He is not.

_I’m Grant Ward…_

He sighs, closes his eyes, and braces himself on the sink. He takes a deep breath, two, three, then opens his eyes again.

_I’m a man. I’m human. I’m black hair and brown eyes and white skin and nose and mouth and teeth and stubble and…_

He can’t take it anymore – it’s too much, too confusing. He closes his eyes once again.

There’s a distant memory in his mind, and it’s not his (it’s disconcerting). It’s somebody else looking through this same set of eyes, looking at the same face, and liking what it sees. The creature approved its host.

(He wants to throw up.)

He tries to focus on something else, bringing forth another memory – a different gaze on the same face. _Skye_. Skye looking at him with a smile on her lips, Skye reaching forward, her fingers touching his cheeks (he trembles).

“You look like one of those ancient sculptures, you know?” she says (he thinks it’s a compliment). “The Greek ones. Or Roman? I never know.” Her thumbs are caressing his cheekbones. “So beautiful. So unfair.”

(He doesn’t know if it really happened or it was part of the illusion. The tumble of memories in his head is just too confusing to properly sort out.)

(He’s afraid it never happened.)

He opens his eyes and stares at his hands (he feels disconnected); his fingernails are cracked, the skin dry. It itches.

With shaking hands, he picks up the shaving foam. He squirts some into his palm (it feels foreign), lathers his face with it (it feels good, to be hidden under the white foam), then reaches for the razor (they gave him a razor; they trust him – _she trusts him_ – not to kill himself) and lifts it to his face.

The creature tended to shave – not too often, but it did (it makes his skin crawl to know this), but he spent four – five? – days in that medical room and his face is dark with stubble. He wants it gone ( _clean slate – clean face_ ; he doesn’t know why it goes together in his mind).

He shaves mechanically (it’s all muscle memory), seeing and not seeing. It’s almost like he is not shaving himself, but somebody else (the reflection still doesn’t feel completely like his).

(He still doesn’t know who he is.)

His hands are still shaking, and he nicks himself. He hisses at the sudden pain (it’s a strange pleasure – feeling pain); the wound is deep as shaving wounds go, and a drop of red appears at the gash, running down his cheek. He lets it flow, watching it in the mirror.

What is so fascinating about blood?, he ponders. Maybe that it’s the sign of life. Only the living bleed, only they have bright scarlet tears escaping their body.

He is alive.

(It’s strangely comforting.)

His face smooth, he splashes water on it, then wipes it with a towel (he leaves deep red stains on the white material), and looks again. He blinks. He looks… He feels just a little bit more like himself. More like _before_.

He tries again.

_I’m Grant Ward. I’m an agent, a spy, a soldier, a weapon, a killer, a betrayer, a snake…_

No.

That’s the past. That’s the before. It’s a new day now, a new life, a new slate – Skye said so.

He sets his gaze down, takes a deep, calming breath, and pushes his hair back from his face (the creature let it grow out; it’s almost long enough to be tied back, and it annoys him, but he doesn’t want to shave it all off, either, because that would remind him… something else. He hasn’t figured out what to do it with yet).

A minute passes with him gripping the edge of the sink, trying to make sense of the world around him – of himself. Then he straightens his spine and faces his reflection once again, this time with newfound determination.

_I’m Grant Ward. I’m nobody. I’m a newborn. I’m nobody’s – I’m my own. I can be whoever I want to be. I have no friends, no alliances, no connections._

“Ward, are you done yet?” he hears Skye’s voice from the other side of the door. “The others are waiting.”

He meets the gaze of his reflection one last time.

_But I can have it all._


End file.
